


always (coming back to) you

by nats_zoo



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Best Friends, Character Study, Childhood Friends, Coming of Age, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, M/M, MSBY Black Jackals - Freeform, Other, Sort Of, mild timeskip spoilers, you get it by now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:21:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29588535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nats_zoo/pseuds/nats_zoo
Summary: hinata shoyo loves a lot, but it's always been you.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	always (coming back to) you

**Author's Note:**

> this has been sitting in my docs for the longest time now. i wrote it in the span of a week, went back and edited it, had a beta-reader go through it and comment on it, and left it to simmer for another month.   
> i love what i wrote. i can say it proudly that i love it very much and i think it'll continue to be one of my favorite things. it's not perfect. looking back i think there was a lot i could've expanded more on, a lot of other details i could've added. but i like this and the little 1.4k word package it's become and i hope you all like it too =]  
> happy reading <3

Hinata Shoyo loves you. 

He found this newfound feeling to be odd, at first. It made his chest ache a little bit, but it was a good kind of ache—the kind of ache that comes after spiking a volleyball  _ really good. _ The kind of ache that rushes through his body after a grueling night of practice. The kind of ache that reminds him of all the hard work he’s put into the things he loves. 

Shoyo loves, he loves so hard, and it’s something he can’t help. It’s a trait that’s been wired into his brain since he was born—flooding through squishy, tiny baby fingers and a mind not yet exposed to all the world has to offer. 

Shoyo loves his mom, loves his sister, loves volleyball, and loves you. He’d never be able to rank these things—if he ever called anything his “favorite” he’d be too guilty to function. But he knows, definitely, absolutely, certainly, that he loves these things—and he loves them very much. 

Hinata Shoyo loves you. 

He first experiences this in his last year of junior high, sitting in the grass (it’s damp from last night’s rain, but he ignores your complaints about it), half-melted popsicle in hand as he talks to you about volleyball—because that’s all his world is at this point in his life. Barely passing school, and volleyball (the former is only there to keep the latter going.) 

“And I want to get better,” he tells you. You’ve heard this so many times before, and he knows you have, but not once have you ever complained about it. “I’m  _ short, _ but I’m  _ good. _ I know I am.” 

“I know you are, too,” you tell him. He spares a glance at you, and your eyes are shining, your attention all on him, sticky fruit-popsicle melting down the side of your hand. You don’t seem to mind it, though (ironically enough, with you complaining about the wet grass just before.) 

Something stirs in his lungs, circulates like spinning tumbleweeds (like the ones he sees in those weird American cartoons that he watches with you,) and it makes him ache, but it feels  _ good. _ You’ve complimented him tons of times before. He’s not sure what makes this so different, what makes this sudden pain kick up in his system. Shoyo looks at you,  _ really looks, _ and he doesn’t think anything is different, actually. Everything is the same. 

He brushes it off, and even when the pain comes back every time he sees you, he pointedly ignores it. 

Hinata Shoyo loves you. 

He realizes this in his last year of high school. You’re sitting on the same patch of grass you’ve always sat in, though it’s no longer damp, nor are there any popsicles to be found. It’s quiet, it has been for a minute, and when Shoyo looks at you, there are shattered silver stars gleaming in your eyes. 

You’re hurting. And he knows it’s because of him, because he told you he wants to leave the country, because he told you he wants to leave  _ you _ (whether that be an intentional desire or not), because this marks the end of innocent adolescence, and the beginning of dreary adulthood and sole self-reliance. 

Shoyo’s lips part. He’s clumsy with words of consolation. He’s only known how to brush things off with playful distractions and make weird volleyball metaphors, but he doesn’t know… this. He doesn’t know what to do with this. With you. With the ever-aching feeling swirling in his diaphragm. 

“I can…” He pauses. “I don’t have to go—” 

“Are you  _ insane?” _ You’re bordering on a shout when you whip your head towards him, brows furrowed in what looks to be aggravation and eyes wide in disbelief. He blinks at you. All of this is unfamiliar, every aspect of this conversation—the look in your eyes, the crease between your eyebrows, the anger in your voice, the fear and  _ sadness _ that had planted itself in your expression just moments before. Shoyo is treading knee-deep in unfamiliar waters and he doesn’t know what to do with the violent tides that sweep beneath his feet. 

“I would— I would  _ never _ hold you back from your dreams, Shoyo,” you spit at him. The meaning of your words is well-placed, but the tone of your voice makes his eyes widen in fear and his form shrink back. “Never. I’m your b— _ est friend, _ and this is what you’ve fought for your whole life. I wouldn’t hold you back from this just because of some stupid, selfish wish.” 

The force behind your voice crumbles, tears welling up in those shattered-silver-stars as your expression twists—it’s ugly, and it’s raw. A sob escapes you and  _ God, _ Shoyo has never felt so strongly for something in so long.

He breaks. He sobs. You fall into each other’s arms, clutching onto one another desperately as if that will keep Hinata Shoyo from flying away. 

(It doesn’t.) 

(Shoyo never asks you what your stupid, selfish wish was all about.) 

Hinata Shoyo loves you. 

He tells you this after years of waiting. He doesn’t tell you this at the airport when he leaves for Brazil, or in the one visit he took back to Japan during his time playing beach volleyball on the other side of the world. He doesn’t tell you this during the calls you share with him in his early mornings and your afternoons. He waits, because Hinata Shoyo has learned how to wait. 

Shoyo has landed himself a place on a professional volleyball team. You’ve voiced your elation over this fact countless times, over calls and text and blurry selfies of you with tears in your eyes and a stupid, wide smile on your face. Work has been busy for you, but when he tells you “Come to my game, it’s a big one. I’m seeing  _ Kageyama _ again,” you don't hesitate for a second to call in sick and buy a ticket. 

(It’s expensive, and when Hinata finds out  _ how much _ you paid for it he chastises you playfully, claiming that he would’ve gotten you a ticket for free.) 

He wins. Of course he wins. Shoyo flies and laughs and plays and he wins. He catches your eye in the crowd after the game ends and he smiles, reserved for you and you only, and you can’t help but smile back. 

You meet him hours after his game ends—interviews and cleaning up and whatnot take an awfully long time. You both sit on a park bench, having walked quietly side-by-side for half an hour until he reached a spot he deemed perfect for the evening. 

It’s not the same patch of grass you both used to sit in, but it’s  _ something _ , and you think Shoyo is more than enough to make up for the lack of a familiar atmosphere. It’s a bit cold, but you think it’s a shame you remembered your jacket—glancing at Shoyo, you find that he looks so much warmer than the fabric you’re wearing. 

Shoyo is glancing at you too, soft smile and warm eyes and gentle flush and all, and his head is ringing loudly trying to process every detail of your presence. 

Hinata Shoyo loves you. 

(God, he loves you so much. So he tells you.)

It’s a very simple ordeal. 

You open your mouth, and he thinks you’re starting to say something like “that was a good game!” or any other mundane praise, and he knows that he should let you speak. But he’s been building up this adrenaline for years now, and nothing can stop him when he says “I love you” in that gentle tone he reserves just for you. 

You stop talking. Shoyo thinks that maybe a rejection is coming soon, but he can’t bring himself to be so upset about it. Because he did it—did what he’s been yearning to do ever since that one afternoon in his last year of high school, and the thought alone makes him invincible to whatever comes out of this very spontaneous confession. 

He tilts his head towards you. You’re staring at him. He smiles again, wide and unabashed and  _ warm. _ He feels your warm lips on his and he knows he should push you away for the sake of his PR team. But,  _ God, _ Hinata Shoyo is  _ invincible _ right now, and getting caught in some mundane “scandal” misinterpreted by the media is the least of his concerns right now. 

(Hinata Shoyo loves you. 

He tells you, now, in subtle ways, like the way he drags his fingers against your face when you’re still sleeping, the way he kisses your temple in half-hazy consciousness, and the way he traces the ring on your left ring finger with his lips.) 


End file.
